The Study of a Predator
by TQuesenberry
Summary: When Daciana "Darcy" Starling relocates from NYU to Derry for a sabbatical leave, she expects quiet solitude in which to addend her work on serial killers with a study of animal predatory dynamics. However, Derry is not what it seems. She quickly finds herself immersed in a hunt for a killer of a different kind, a timeless monster that has traversed multiverses and preys on fear.


**The Makings of an Investigator**

My first impression of Derry rang isolation. As soon as I turned off the interstate and came upon the town, I couldn't help but frown. It was so small, so quaint. The trees lining each street bore leaves of all shades of red and amber in observation of the cold October air. As I wound through the streets, I glanced from side to side. Small family homes dominated, until I emerged in the town center to find an expansive green park nestled in a turnabout and bordered by the town hall, the library, and several small mom and pop shops. It looked every bit the suburban paradise, exuding small-town charm from every street corner, every store front, every lamp post. I continued past the roundabout, glancing at the hastily written instructions lying on my passenger seat. They indicated I was still on the right path.

_Go on sabbatical_

, she'd urged. They'd all jumped onboard that bandwagon. The department, the university. After the incident, they seemed to take up a balancing act around me, treading pins and needles as they struggled with the words to say. And those were the brave ones. Most simply avoided the inevitable awkward encounter, spinning on their heels and rerouting at the mere indication of run-in. That's why my PI, Dr. Alicia Bernswell, had pushed me to take a sabbatical, to allow them all to breathe again. To get on with their lives and research without having to maneuver the tightrope I'd become. Except that I wasn't the one making all the fuss. I'd insisted I was fine, but they wouldn't have it. It was just as well, I supposed, working in the behavioral psychology department. No one in _that_ department would believe a trauma victim was _fine_ mere months after the incident. That I was not exhibiting any outward symptoms of PTSD or signs of distress meant only that I was engaging in some sort of coping mechanism. Probably an unsavory one, at that. No way I was unscathed, they assured themselves.

Dr. Bernswell had talked a good game, at any rate, and offered up an infallible rationale for my sudden excursion. _Go on sabbatical to study predatory behavior in another species—as a supplement to your human research._ A species comparison certainly offered a unique perspective to my research into criminal predatory behavior. Humans were members of the animal kingdom, after all, and we shared plenty of similarities with our animal brethren in other regards. It would have made sense to study chimpanzees—they were a brutal bunch—but that would entail a journey to Africa. Africa, with all its political turmoil and warring strife, was unstable, dangerous. It was no place for a fresh trauma victim. _Wolves,_ she offered as an alternative. There were plenty of documented packs just north, in Maine, not especially far from NYU. Close enough for a quick extraction, if needed, and isolated enough to offer solace. Yes, she'd certainly talked a good game.

No sooner had I given vague credence to the idea, it seemed, than the University was sending me off, having approved funding and leased living quarters in little more than a week. I quirked an eyebrow at the notice I'd received in my staff mailbox a mere 8 days following Dr. Bernswell's recommendation. An entity known for dragging its metaphorical feet over abominable logistical hurdles had heaved forth an effort that would make anyone gawk in disbelief. Of course, they'd all but laughed in my face 6 months ago when I inquired into an expedited timeframe to renew my secure access liberties and qualitative data analysis software license.

_Oh dear, when did you say you submitted the request? Four months ago, you say? You can expect us to fulfill it when hell freezes over. We're very busy, you see._

Or, at least, she might as well have said that. Never mind that both renewals were key to the successful completion of my doctoral thesis according to schedule, and the delay could very well force me to postpone my graduation date. Ironically enough, you might call this little hang-up the inciting factor that eventually found me in the spotlight of the incident, a hero's call, so to speak. You might call it that. Or you might call it shitty luck.

It all seemed a blur to me, my last two weeks at the University. I was standing center stage in a whirlwind of activity, unnoticed in the eye of a storm that had blinked into existence and roared mercilessly for me, unwittingly playing the puppet to an unseen hand and too removed to care. The air was thick and I was stuck and everyone just whirled on.

Niebolt street was isolated even by Derry's standards, lying on the town's outskirts just beside the railroad tracks. Per the stack of papers on my passenger's seat, my rental was a small, gray cottage with white trim near the end of the street. I peered forward, towards the dead end and the shabby chain-linked fence that bounded the railway, and spotted it beside a large, dilapidated two-story home. As I pulled up to the curb, I couldn't help but stare at my monstrous neighbor. It demanded attention. Its presence retained an imposing edge despite its slumped stature, and I couldn't help but imagine how it might have looked in its prime. I cocked my head as my gaze roamed over the rounded spire closest to me and stopped on one of the few windows not boarded up. A shiver worked its way up my spine as I peered up at it, as I became more convinced the longer I stared that there was another inquiring back. I blinked and shook myself out, effectively breaking the moment in favor of a shaky laugh. _Ridiculous_, I muttered to myself, but I schooled my gaze away from the intimidating structure regardless. It settled instead on the yard, and I found it eerie that it was spotted here and there with small troops of sunflowers that nodded sagely in a languid breeze. Their sunny disposition seemed simultaneously at odds with the place and yet oddly fitting, a cloaking brigade that enticed passerby to test their courage, to tread closer, throw caution to the wind, don't you want to see insideeeeeeeeee?

I gasped with a start as I returned to myself and found, to my mild horror, that I was standing at the door of the place I'd just been appraising, my hand firmly around the doorknob. I tore my hand from it as if I'd been burned and looked over my shoulder. The sunflowers still faced me, their leisurely nods having taken a sinister edge. Did sunflowers change direction like that? I'd read somewhere that their eager faces followed the sun. I glanced upward to find the sky dark and grey, and back to the sunflowers again, all facing different directions from various vantage points, all zeroing in on me. I shook myself out again and trotted down the stairs from the porch and across the yard, stopping to turn and face the menacing house only after I'd securely latched the chain linked gate behind me. Spooked, I considered the occurrence that had jumped me from the safety of the sidewalk into the bounds of my neighbors yard. I screwed my face at the house, remembering how I'd been thinking of the sunflowers, how they'd seemed wrong here, when suddenly my inner voice was no longer my own. It had sounded raspy, jeering. I shuddered and backed down the sidewalk toward my car, afraid to turn my back on the place. When I reached it, I threw open the door and took a gulp of old gas station coffee before turning to the trunk to begin the long process of unpacking. I must have been more tired than I realized, because I noticed after I'd latched the gate that the sunflowers were staring at me again.


End file.
